In the forgetfulness of darkness
I keep on spending time
as if my words can write away the insignificance
in one or other method,
can argue with the forgetfulness,
as if I can bring a context to the past,
as if there is great power in my words
and in the reality of the presence,
as if I can send every fiend and falsehood
straight to hell
and yet it does only remain words on paper,
the wasting of hour upon hour.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem